


Roses & Oil

by thewrongclone



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Awkwardness, Character Development, F/M, Opposites Attract, Original Character(s), POV Alternating, Pride and Prejudice vibes, ballet dancer OC, prejudiced arthur, prideful OC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24145510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewrongclone/pseuds/thewrongclone
Summary: Clara Reynolds is a ballet dancer who is the definition of prim and proper but is focused on her goal of arriving in Paris and when offered the chance to make that money, even if the offer comes from the end of a gun, she takes it.
Relationships: Arthur Morgan/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 20





	1. Arthur

“Hey, Arthur!” Hosea called stopping Arthur with a tap on the shoulder. 

Arthur didn’t have anywhere to go in particular. He was getting anxious listening to Micah and Dutch talk about a boat. He wanted to do something more... more safe. Hosea must have felt the same way by the way he instantly launched on a good tip.  
Hosea told him about how a ballet company had come into Blackwater for the next month or so. Part to perform and part to practice for the rest of their tour into the wilds of America. Arthur had snorted. Hosea insisted that all the dancers were rolling in money, all coming from rich fathers and living such sheltered lives where they were easy pickings. Arthur perked up at this. Hosea went on, he had seen one in particular, not walking around in the typical pack but draped in finery nonetheless. She was their first pick. 

Arthur nodded. They’d follow her tonight. Hosea was sure he had a basic schedule. She would go to the theatre from 7am until 2pm, leave for a short walk until finding a suitable bench to write (Hosea did not know what) and perhaps mail a letter, then return until 6pm where she would return to an apartment that Hosea assured the poor or decrepid could not afford. 

Arthur nodded once more, soaking in the information. They would strike then. Pushing her into her home and closing the door and demanding she hand over any goods. It was a two man job. Hosea would pick up and bag anything, Arthur would keep her quiet. 

Arthur tipped his hat lower, letting the sun soak his body as he leaned on a post outside the theatre. Hosea was across the street. The days were beginning to get longer as spring approached. It made Arthur hopeful. It would need to be spring or summer to start travelling west. He could feel the gang get agitated being this close to Blackwater and Arthur felt it too. 

Hosea let out a small whistle, catching his attention and breaking his thoughts. Arthur’s eyes quickly fell onto the girl Hosea quickly gestured towards. 

Her hair was tightly pinned up, though discouraged strands were finding their way loose. He nearly glanced over her twice, a thing he rarely did, for her stark white clothes. A wispy white skirt, just kissing the floor, and a white shirt tucked in. It was hastily done, the sleeves rolled up to reveal ivory skin. She looked how he had imagined a dancer to look. A upturned nose, pearls stringed around her neck and on her chest several times around, and a dazzling ring on her index finger. Arthur’s eyes skipped to her ring finger - to check if Hosea had missed a potential husband at this apartment - but it was bare. Her cheeks were flushed, he spied closely as she nearly brushed right into him. She had begun a beeline to a bench close by.   
“Stupid stupid,” she muttered bringing out paper and a small book. She began scribbling faster than Arthur saw anyone write - even Hosea. 

Her voice was softer than he thought. He didn’t know why he had pictured a shrill voice but he had. 

“You don’t need to look at her like candy, Arthur,” Hosea quipped, “but it does help you blend in.” 

“I was looking at what she has on her already,” he grumbled back, “we could just meet her one way in an alley.” 

But his eyes travelled up around to a salon across from her perched spot. Despite her angry screwed up face a pair of men had their eyes trained on her as if she was otherworldly. 

Hosea interrupted Arthur’s thought and the uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, “This could bring Dutch off that damn boat. A whole company of girls like this? It’s for our picking.”

Arthur agreed, moving with Hosea to a comfortable position to wait for her. Arthur watched, suddenly feeling uncomfortable in his shoes, as a man approached her stuttering. She waved him to dismiss him, hardly paying attention. He tried to speak again.   
He nearly laughed at the expression that fell onto the girls face as she scrutinised the boy who had approached. Her eyebrows were scrunched together and her lips pursed. She dramatically dropped her utensils onto the spot next to her on the bench.   
“What is it?” She snapped, her soft voice now iced. 

“I-I well, miss, I saw you, I saw you sitting all here lonesome-“ 

“Do I look lonesome?” She interrupted.

“I- miss I don’t see anyone here.” 

“No, you don’t,” she nodded and for a second Arthur felt pity for the boy who mistook her words for niceties. Arthur spent too long overhearing Karen and the other ladies snap at each other.   
The boy made to move down but she held a hand out, the hand with the ring. 

“Perhaps I am alone because that is what I intend. I’m not lonesome.” 

The boy flustered again, she sighed and rubbed her brow, “look, bother some girl who is looking lonesome. Bother some girl who is not me.” 

She packed up her things, huffing loud enough for Arthur to hear across the road. She returned to the theatre, thin fingers flicking open the first few buttons on her shirt clearly not seeing Arthur watching her move. She disappeared into the building before anything but collar bones were revealed.


	2. Clara

Clara stripped quickly in the dressing room. Fixing her dancing dress the best she could before anyone questioned her. She smiled at the younger girl who came and pulled the ribbons on the back of the corset tight for her. 

Anna was well meaning but annoying for the most part. She was constantly obsessed about her fiancé back in New York while casting glances at Clara’s own bare finger and lack of love letters. She would go to comfort Clara as if hearing the word husband would cause the twenty-two year old to combust.

Clara seethed silently but it only made her guilt disapiate at what she chose to do. Anna was a young and frightful girl. Her trunk at the theatre was overpacked for all their costume changes already and thus filled to the brim with jewellery. Clara hardly minded pinching the elegant pearl necklace or the sapphire ring that weighed down her whole hand. It let her gloat about how her own father brought it for her. Anna had never noticed across the last few months. 

“You look beautiful,” Anna complimented, “though you are gaining some weight.” 

Anna pinched her side as if to show her the weight she had clearly gained. Clara rolled her eyes and moved to the slippers. Anna turned and walked away, no doubt to spread her concerns. 

“You do look rather dashing,” a smooth voice came from the doorway. 

Elliot was what one would expect from a male lead dancer. Tall, lean, and made from block of muscle. His face was well chiseled with blonde curly locks fluttering across his brow. He never slicked them back for practice and it almost endeared her in a young boyfish way. 

“Are you sure I’m not bulging out of my dress?” Clara smirked, posing in the short fluffy dress. 

“She’s annoyed because her soon to be husband has put off coming to St. Dennis.” 

“St. Dennis isn’t for a few weeks yet,” Clara mused, “I dread to begin to think what comments she will make later.” 

Elliot took her arm leading her to the stage as he spoke, “maybe another question on our questionable relationship.”

Clara blushed in embarrassment. The sort of blush that ran across her neck as well.

“A comment on how no girl can weasel a proposal out of you? I think that is more of a comment towards yourself than I,” she tried to reply cooly despite the waves of heat falling off her face. 

“Or how you have refused mine,” he murmured, low enough that only she heard it as they went through onto the stage. 

That shut Clara up. How could she explain that she had never refused because of him. He was a good suitor. They could spend their lives happy, she knew that in her heart. But... but she wanted love. She feared she would never love him and feared even worse that he adored her simply because she was friendly and not gushing over him. 

The madame clapped her hands loudly, closing any conversation she and Elliot might have. Instead she chewed her lip until nightfall. 

The streets of Blackwater were shockingly safe. A detective company had somewhat of a presence and most gangs stayed out of the limits. So Clara felt free to walk down the cobbled streets, listening to the clack of her shoes, fiddling with a new item she had procured. This one she would sell for, while it was expensive, it was rather ugly to her eye. 

A chill ran through her and she almost looked around expecting some nefarious men. But she didn’t. She wasn’t a foolish child. 

She fiddled with the key. The apartment was the ground floor of a place a few streets away from the theatre. Once she felt the clicks of the lock vibrate through her, a hand was on her back. 

“We don’t want trouble,” a hard voice grumbled into her ear. She almost screamed. Instead making a rather dumb gurgling sound as she surpressed the reaction.

“Just go in, miss,” another, slightly calmer voice, insisted. 

She obeyed. Quickly discerning that a hand was not on her back but the small barrel of a gun. It poked her harshly when she didn’t move quick enough. 

She focused her eyes forward, “I haven’t seen you,” she insisted, “you can leave with no trouble.” 

The nicer man chuckled lightly with no real humour, “we won’t cause any trouble anyway.” 

She slumped, her muscles already hurting from hours of dancing and now being held taut by her stress. She had a pistol, it was across the room in the draw. 

She allowed the gruff man to steer her among furniture into the room. The draw was close now. She had positioned it near the door for this reason. Well, not this one. She was more worried about someone finding out about her pinching habits. 

“You can take the gun off her now, I think the lady understands.” 

The gruff man huffed but removed the gun. She perked her ears, listening for the sound of leather as it went into the holster. The man still stood close. 

“We’re not going to hurt you, miss,” the nice voice somewhere behind her insisted, “it might do you some good to walk over to that wall and just stay until we leave.”

They were going to take her stuff! Tears welled in her eyes. Sure not all of it was hers but... but it was hers now. She walked carefully to the wall, the gruff man was giving her more space. She was an arms length from the draws. 

“Good, see miss we aren’t like that,” the nice man must have presumed she was terrified for other reasons. As if being stolen from was a breeze. 

They must be outlaws, she concluded. Who would dare to think burglary wasn’t scary in its own right? 

One more step. She breathed. They wouldn’t kill her. She could just tell them to get out. They wouldn’t kill her, would they? 

It took two seconds, the nice man was speaking slowly to the gruff one. The draw was flung open loudly, she reached in and turned around pointing it at whatever was behind her. Both her hands clutched the pistol. Her arms shook. Tears welled in her eyes. 

The men had masks tied across their mouths and hats drawn low. One was slightly shorter than the other and a shade paler. His eyes were shocked but kinder. The other was tall, taller than Elliot perhaps, and just as broad. His clothes were roughly made and threads of brown hair poled out of the hat. One hand rested on the gun in his holster. 

Fuck. They might shoot her. She nearly wept then. 

“Look,” her voice didn’t crackle like she expected it to, “you can leave now. I will scream, everyone will hear.” 

“Miss, we don’t want to hurt anyone,” the shorter man - the kind voice spoke. 

“I-,” she stumbled, “I just want you gone now.”

“We are just going to take what you don’t need,” he spoke, “how ‘bout you keep that gun trained on my friend here,” he gestured to the tall man who look bewildered at the suggestion, “and if I don’t stay to my word you can,” he chuckled a little, “you can do what you want.”

She didn’t want to. 

She tried again, “I have a -,” pause, “a gentleman who is expecting to come some time soon.” 

The kind voice chuckled again, “No you don’t.” 

She narrowed her eyes. Had they been following her? Clara opened her mouth to talk again unsure what words would come out herself. Her hands were sweaty on the pistol. 

A knock rang out on the door and they all whipped their heads to it. A rash thought of - wait was I expecting someone? - fell across her mind before she dismissed it. Then her head snapped to the two men. They weren’t expecting anyone either. 

“Who is it?” The gruff man snapped, stepping towards her now pulling out the revolver. Her finger wavered over the trigger. 

“I- I don’t know,” she whispered, looking up at the imposing man. She wanted to cry all over again. The kind man crowdered her as well, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Miss?” A voice called from behind the door, she didn't recognise it. 

“Should I answer?” Her eyes flew between them all. 

“Miss?” The voice prompted again, “I’m agent Dunhill from Pinkerton detective agency, I just wanted to talk.”

“Pinkertons!” The gruff man hissed towards the kinder one before turning to her, fury in his gaze, “What are they doing here?”

She opened her mouth, almost ready to lie but he pointed the gun at her, wagging it slightly, “Don’t lie, miss.”

Her shoulders slumped and her fingers shook even more on the gun, “I may… I may have stolen certain items.”

The man threw his arms up in annoyance and turned away rubbing his face through the black bandana. The kind man chuckled slightly. Clara almost yelled at him before another knock came.

“Look, miss,” the voice was insistent, “We know you’re in there, please come answer.”

“Is this the first time?” The kind man asked.

Clara faltered, “Yes.”

“Brilliant,” he nodded, “Answer the door, tell him to go away,” he then turned to the other man, “And you, call her back, pretend to be her husband, yell at them.”

He gently pushed Clara towards the door and she obeyed. She heard mutterings behind her. The hairs on her neck stood up as she got closer to the door. She hid one arm behind the door and opened it so only half her body appeared. She sucked in some air and tried to appear confident. 

“Sorry, I was,” the words didn't come out smoothly, “with my fiance.”

The stout man seemed flustered by this information and looked over at her a couple of times, “I’m sorry to disturb, miss.”

“I hope this remains short then,” she looked anywhere but at the detective, “What is the matter?”  
“Well,” he flipped open a small notebook as if he had a script written out.

Thankfully a voice hollered behind her with a thick southern twang, “Darlin’, do you need me to speak to that man?”

She turned her head slightly, not looking behind her but feigning she was, “No, I believe the man was just apologising for disturbing us.”

She raised an eyebrow, praying it didn't look shaky. The man flushed, “I am sorry, sir,” he spoke over Clara’s head, “I just have to ask a few questions.”

“Who are you askin’ any questions to my future wife at this hour?” Clara shook at the clear pointed tone from the man somewhere behind her.

Pinkerton must have realised as well, her bobbed his head, “Quite right, sir, I’ll be along,” he called, but then looked pointedly at her, “I will be back, miss.”

Clara said nothing but quickly shut the door and pressed her back to it. The gruff man had put away his gun and folded his arms over his chest. She was thankful. But now they were both staring at her. 

The kind man pulled off his mask, revealing a wrinkled face and a small smile. His eyes crinkled as they aparised her. 

“Now that we’ve helped each other,” he held out his hand, “I’m Hosea Williams.”

She took it, cautious, eyes flickering everywhere, “Clara Reynolds.” 

Hosea looked at the man expectantly. He snatched off his mask, looking uncomfortably at her not meeting her wide eyes, “Arthur Callahan.” 

She folded her own arms over herself, not letting go of the pistol or moving from her position at the door. She tried to calm her shaking hands - she nearly did. 

“I see an opportunity, Miss Reynolds,” Hosea started, moving a bit closer. She and Arthur frowned. He continued however, “I think you’ve found an overflowing pot, and my friend and I could help you,” he searched for the word, waving a hand about, “offload this pot.”

She pursed her lips, thinking. She hadn’t been stealing from Anna for no reason. She did like the jewelry and did wear it. But she was slowly selling it as well. She thought she was being careful. Evidently not, she snapped at herself in her mind. She was saving. She wanted to leave and go to the continent. She felt stifled in the small american company, she and Elliot had dreamed about saving up and leaving. But it would take years. She wanted out now and she was close. 

“And if I say no?” She frowned, trying to not be tempted by the men.

Hosea shrugged, “We’ll just take from here now. But if you help us, we’ll split. A third.” 

She moved down sitting on the dining table chair, pistol not leaving her hand. Her hand undid the tie around her hair, letting it fall in her face. Her hands had stopped shaking, she realised. She had to be stronger than she was - she told herself - play a character. Clara closed her eyes and opened them, resolved to be the sort of woman she wanted. One that was dedicated to getting to Paris. 

She set the pistol down, “Okay, but there’s rules.” 

“Rules!” Arthur huffed but took a seat at the table with Hosea, “You think you’re gonna be the one coming up with rules?”

She rolled her eyes, “No weapons around me. Don’t bring anything. And she isn’t going to see you.”

Arthur huffed again loudly looking at Hosea. But Hosea smiled and nodded.

“I have a friend,” Clara continued, opting to ignore Arthur, “She is living by herself, rich daddy and a rich husband. I’ll talk to her, bring her into her garden, and you two,” she gestured, “go in and do what you do. She only has a maid, who is off most afternoons, and a serving girl or two, and they’ll be in the garden.”

Hosea nodded, “Miss Reynolds, you have to understand we could think you’re setting us for failure.”

She tutted, “It’s clear the Pinkertons have their own suspicions of me, I won’t be going there any time soon,” Clara stood up as she spoke and went to another draw.

Arthur pushed his chair up loudly, his hand on his gun again, “What’chu doing?”

She rolled her eyes, not stopping in searching the draw, “I’m proving that I’ll show up without any trouble.” 

Finally she plucked out the locket. It was heavy silver hiding a portrait within and a matching silver chain. Clara sighed, she’d get this back, she assured herself. But she was playing a stronger version of herself - and she would. 

Once she turned back to the room, the less emotional mask was on. Clara held out the locket to Arthur. 

The man scrunched up his eyebrows and looked at her as if she was an alien. His hand was still on the revolver. She pursed her lips in response. Clara reached out, grabbing the hand not on the revolver, ignoring how he tensed at her touch. His hand was hot to the touch but a small shiver went up her spine. He let her open his fingers and place the locket in his palm. She nearly forgot the situation they were in. 

She forced herself to turn to Hosea instead on the man that was practically breathing on her.  
“It isn’t worth much,” she relented, “so I expect you not to sell it, but it is worth a lot to me. If I called the Pinkertons or the Sheriff they aren’t going to let me get it back, I’m sure.”

Hosea stood up, hands on his belt, “Miss, I think this will work quite well, what day will do you good?”

She went to rub her brow. Her hand was a hairs length away from Arthur’s still - neither of them had moved. The closeness caused her skin to pimple again. God, she felt like an idiot. She tried to ignore it, hoping no one had noticed her hesitation. 

“Thursday, just before noon, meet me here.” 

“Won’t you be at the theatre?” Arthur spoke too loudly and too quickly. 

Finally Clara moved away, her senses coming to her. They had been following her. Did that make it worse? Yes, probably - she told herself but how much worse can it get? Now her eyes were darting between them. Just think about Paris, she repeated in her head.

“No,” she replied as evenly as she could, “Character artists are practicing that day.”

Both men nodded as if they understood what she meant. 

“We’ll be here, miss,” Hosea began walking to the door, “I think this could be beneficial.”

She hummed, crossing her arms as they moved out the room. Arthur looked back as he was in the doorway. He wavered, his eyes resting on her form. She was struggling to keep up the facade. 

“You sure you can handle the Pinkertons, Miss Reynolds?”

She was thrown off by the question. She expected him to warn her - tell her what would happen if she went running. Clara stumbled over her words for a reply. 

“When I get that money I’m leaving here.” 

He looked her up and down, doubt evident, “The west might not be a better place for a woman like you.”

“I’m not heading west,” she remained tight lipped. 

His eyebrows rose but he finally left, shutting the door softly. Finally tears started rolling across her cheeks and a strangled sob escaped her lips. She fell into her bed, not changing, Thursday was two days away.


	3. Clara

She dressed nice, fancier than usual. A dusty pink dress that bared her shoulders and sat tight on her chest. She draped her neck in pearls - technically Anna’s pearls that she had a man up to buy within the week - and tried to calm her breathing. She needed to look as rich as Anna would look, it was a necessity in keeping her docile and unknowing.

A knock broke her out of her thoughts. 

Arthur stood in the doorway, looking to his side to not meet her eye. For a second, a very small second, she looked over his features. He was handsome, with stubble and a jaw that women would swoon over. His eyes were squinted and he had the beginnings of crows feet. His skin was sun damaged, and served as a reminder that he was further from anyone she had ever taken a walk with. Part of her wished he would smile but the more rational part of her felt like it would be better if he didn't. 

“Mr Callahan.” 

He turned and his lip moved weirdly as if he meant to speak but paused as the syllable formed. He took off his hat, fiddling it between his fingers.

“Miss Reynolds,” he sighed, his eyes quickly brushing over her in a way that caused her stomach to twist, “I have a change of plan, I mean, Hosea has changed the plan.”

She grabbed the door, “And I suppose I don’t have a choice?”

He winced, “I am sorry, Miss. But no. The original plan will happen next week. Today we are just,” he paused trying to find the words, “we just need to show someone that you can be trusted.”

She raised an eyebrow, “I feel like you shouldn’t be telling me this is a test.”

His lips quirked at the side, “No, miss, I should not.”

“So the new plan?” She prompted stepping out, taking his arm without his prompt.

It was so they would look inconspicuous. And so if the Pinkertons approached or saw her it looked like she was continuing her story of having a fiance. He stiffened at her touch, not moving for a second. He was more than a head taller despite her not being particularly small. A wave of the pleasant wax of promade and the dim smell of tobacco fled over her, causing her skin to pimple slightly.

“Miss?” He still hadn’t moved. 

“Just escort me close,” she didn't look up at him, “who knows where Pinkertons are and it seems your friend was right it scared them away with a husband.”

He nodded, stiffly. 

He looped his arms formally through hers, falling into a perfect place. Did he escort many women around? She turned her nose at the thought, she doubted he escorted any higher class women.

“We are following the plan. You’ll be going to tea with your friend. We are just assurin’ nothing was set up. Someone’ll be watching from afar making sure the house is as empty as you were saying.”

“And I’m supposed to continue trusting you and your friends? A group of… of,” she hissed the final word, “criminals!”

He stopped, pulling her tight. The street was crowded and people tuttuted and walked around. Although it looked much more like they were in an intimate embrace rather than Arthur squeezing her painfully to a stop. A yelp died on her lips as he brought his face to her ear. His stubble scratching painfully across her cheek.

“You were the one with Pinkertons at your door, You were the one stealing from your own goddamn friends.”

She managed to push away, stumbling. He grabbed her arm, either to stop her from falling or fleeing. He still looked angry under the shade of his hat. But pity seeped his eyes as well. God, she hated him. She wanted to attack him, pull her hair pins out and run at him. To show him she wasn't a child. She could handle herself. She was better. Her face was too hot and her thoughts were causing her to breathe even faster uncomfortably.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like that.” part of her knew she should perhaps apologise but he had riled her up more.

He grabbed and maneuvered her back into position so they could continue walking.

“I’ll talk to you however I like, you are acting like a child.”

“You expect me to be composed when you are, you are manhandling me,” he quickly softened at her words. At least he had some honour not to continue dragging her along.

“Miss,” he seemed to immediately settle his emotions hidden under his worn hat, “I just came to inform you of the changes, as a courtesy, I can leave now if you give your understanding.”

He had properly informed in person to ensure she wasn't skittish and it had almost been a kind gesture. But she wanted to spit more venom.

“You only came because I doubt any of you can write. A letter would suffice rather than speaking to the likes of you.”

He squeezed her tightly again. Clara was about to follow up and hurt him more. It made her feel better at least. But only marginally and the high was already fading. 

But a shrill voice interrupted. 

“Clara! Clara, who is the beau of yours?!”

They had arrived. Arthur hadn’t managed to pull away and slip into the shadows before they did. They were at the crest of a hill with a gleaming white southern house on the top. Beautifully manicured gardens awaited them. As they arrived at the front gate, a largish woman in aprons - the cook - kept her head down and left. A blooming willow tree hung, with petals softly floating to the ground and onto a white bench. Further, surrounded by patches of fragrant flowers, a white wooden gazebo was on a raised platform with table and chairs set up for tea. A man in a fine suit stood, slightly off, in the shade, clearly ready to serve. How rich exactly was Anna? Clara hadn’t heard of her father when she used to live in New York, but perhaps her husband was more well off than she let on.

Arthur had stiffened and they were both left gaping like fish. Fuck. 

She had to improvise. She had done this before, her dancing partner had fallen short, and she had to move and flow before the audience knew. She had done this for years. 

“Anna,” she held Arthur close, she wasn't going to let him hightail it out of here, “that is why I wanted to speak to you. My, my,” this was too hard, “Arthur. This is my Arthur, he is my fiancee.”

Arthur, for all that she had hoped, nodded his head and took off his hat, holding it to his chest.  
“Good afternoon, miss.”

She held her hand out, smiling dazzlingly. Arthur followed perfectly, dipping and kissing it lightly. Anna blushed fiercely. God, it only made Clara hate her more. But she kept the thin smile on her face. 

“He was only walking me here, I heard gossip there was a gang not too far away,” Clara spoke slowly, looking up at Arthur and forcing him to look at her. The hidden meaning thick on her tongue.

He smiled, fake, but his eyes hit her carefully. They were cool, not cold, but hiding the emotion underneath. They lingered, almost mimicking how lovers would gaze. He had wrapped an arm around her waist gently now he wasn't holding Anna’s hand, it had relaxed her. She was used to faking intimacy, had done it on stage a dozen times.

“That I was,” he nodded, “so I will have to bid you goodbye, miss,” with that fake easy smile he turned to her, “I’ll be back in a few hours.”   
He leaned slowly, giving her plenty of time to realise and react. She moved to the side, allowing a chaste kiss on the cheek. The stubble didn't scratch this time and the smell of wax lingered gently. 

Anna cooed, “My what a handsome couple. I hope to see you again Mr…” she trailed off purposely. 

“Callahan, and I’m sure you’d soon be making my acquaintance. Have a good afternoon, Miss.”

He nodded once more, squeezing Clara’s hand slightly too hard, before turning and walking away slowly and casually. His hat securely on his head, shading all emotion from his face. 

“Why isn’t Elliot going to be disappointed!” Anna smirked slightly while watching Arthur walk away. 

“He is my friend, he’ll be happy for me,” Clara assured, trying to grit her teeth as they walked for tea. This was going to take some time and patience. 

By the time Arthur had returned Clara had held pretty strong. She had only excused herself to the bathroom, where she spared several tears, once. Arthur sent a low whistle across the garden and Anna immediately erupted in giggles. Clara didn't even roll her eyes; she was that happy. She turned and sent him a wide smile, no longer thinking about everything she had done but rather glad she could leave. He had taken off his hat, pulling the polite charade again. Clara tried not to practically run to him, instead walking slowly over with Anna. 

“We must have dinner together soon,” Anna smiled warmly up at Arthur, “My fiance is visiting Blackwater soon, he’ll be happy to have another man at the table.”

“We will see, Arthur has to visit his family soon much, much further west, but thank you for having me,” she held Arthur’s hand and kissed Anna on the cheek, “but we very much have to go, Arthur is a busy man.”

Anna’s brow creased but she relented. She was probably only upset because she didn't have the chance to give a long slow goodbye to Arthur. The vulture. Clara was already linking her arms with Arthur and guiding him away. She nearly missed the low smirk on his face at her quick movements.

“She ain’t your friend, I take it?”

The tension left her shoulders, “She is my understudy, when someone is attempting to take your place, you cannot truly be friends with them.”

He chuckled low slightly, hat back over his face, leading her into the city. She tugged his arm to a stop. 

“I am sorry for what I said, I’d excuse the behaviour with the fact that you have put me under a fair amount of stress and, well, this is simply a lot for me.” 

His eyes studied her hard, and he finally dropped the act of guiding and dropped her arms.

“Everyone can be nervous on their first job.”

She gritted her teeth looking away, why couldn’t he just accept the apology? God she hated him.

“Well, is there any chance you can give some tips as a well worked criminal.” 

There was the venom again. She was disappointed in herself. The back of her head told her that she shouldn’t do this again, he wasn't her punching bag. Instead he chuckled this time, moving through his pockets for a round pot of tobacco. She was almost happy, the smell was calming. 

“First, I would say you need to hold your composure,” the pot had opened and the smell had taken the tension from her shoulders, “The second, is don’t try to rile up men much bigger than you. I could be a bad one. And -”

“You’re not a bad one?” he had began walking slowly so she followed, heeled shoes lightly clanking agaisnt cobble, “you followed me!”

“We wanted to make sure no accidents happened when we approached,” he shrugged.

“You, you tried to steal from me!”

“Things you stole in the first place, it seems to me. And what harm is there in stealing from what we thought was a well bred rich woman.”

Her jaw slacked, “Are you implying I am not ‘well bred’! I’ll have you know-” 

Finally he stopped her, placing a hand on her back. She hadn’t been paying attention. 

“We’re here.”

“Oh, well,” she crossed her arms, “Did I pass your friends test?”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

“So can I have the locket back?”

His eyes glided into pity before he shifted his hat to cast a long shadow across his face.

“No, not until this is over.”

She bit away tears. But she held back the venom.

“Next week?”

“Yes, so arrange another tea, before her husband arrives.”

“Fiancee,” she sniffed, correcting him pointlessly, “will you be watching me?”

He shifted uncomfortably, “sometimes. To ensure Pinkertons don’t corner you and leave us standing.”

“Will it be you and that other man?”

“Hosea,” he corrected, “and yes. So if you see us, don't approach.”

“I won’t,” she lingered at the door now, “what was the other advice you had?”

“Go with your gut,” he looked rather solemn, “we won’t have time to help you if something goes wrong.” 

“I think I can survive,” it almost sounded snarky but Arthur nodded, turning to squint down the near empty road.

“I don’t doubt, but that doesn't stop you ever needing to watch your back.”

She relented, moving now into the apartment, her hands on the door. 

“Thank you, then, for the walk if nothing else,” she lingered on him but he didn't turn to look at her, so she pushed herself into her apartment. And, very bravely in her opinion, held her tears until she had gone to sleep later that night.


	4. Arthur

Arthur was riding Silver Dollar. Hosea had practically chucked the reigns at him. He was so focused on forcing the little horse to go as fast as it could that thoughts flew through his mind at the same speed. He was closer to the city with every second. 

Something or someone had fucked up. 

A rabbit ran out and was crushed under hooves but Arthur didn't care.

They had to leave and they had to now. 

Someone screamed at the side, yelling at him to fuck off and slow down. 

They were all going to be stringed up soon if they didn't get out. Everyone was going to. He had been yelling at them as they returned in a rush from that boat. They had half lied to him and Hosea about where they were going; half tricked them into believing they would follow the plan to pilfer the dancers’ pockets instead. God, the anger was radiating off of him, heating him up and numbing his hands at the same time. 

He had to slow the horse down too quickly, rearing it up as they got to the cobble roads. He really had to slow down now. He had to come here no one else in the gang could and Hosea had been too focused on organising. Arthur had to come and inform the woman. That was what Hosea had said and Dutch approved but he knew what Hosea really wanted. He was going to chuck her over his shoulder if he had to. They couldn’t let the pinkertons connect the dots. While the law was all over the gang, they weren’t hated by the public yet. But if it came out they had burglarised a lady - as he was sure she would twist it to the detectives - the public would also be searching for them. 

He finally got to her door before the sun had set. Hopping off Silver Dollar and banging on the door before composing himself slightly. People were already looking and it wouldn't be good if he got reported. 

She called out first before opening the door, “Elliot?”

Arthur frowned, taking off his hat quickly so he’d have something to fiddle with and no bang on the door again. 

“Arthur. Let me in.” 

She opened the door, flushed but with her shoulders slumped downwards. Her face was red and slightly puffy. He, on instinct, scanned her body for bruises but there were none. Instead he saw that shiny cattleman in her right hand, held all wrong. At least she had some sense and for whatever reason it relaxed him a bit.

He pushed past her, closing the door behind him. She moved and slumped at the same table they had held her at gunpoint. She still held the pistol but it was loose in her grip and her other hand was busy rubbing her forehead. 

Arthur moved quickly, pacing slightly around the room.

“Get up. We need to go. Something happened and we need it,” he was ordering her in quick sentences in the firm voice he used when breaking horses, “we, you need to get out here with us. It’s the best chance. Pinkertons are crawling for us and that’s you included.”

She mumbled something and didn't move. Something inside of him popped. She needed to get fucking moving. 

He moved in front of her, gripping her shoulders tightly and forcing her to look at him. He grabbed too hard and knew he was. Her hand tightened on the pistol but didn't move. 

“Listen.” He ordered, “Get yourself together. Don’t stop moving. I’ll leave you here if you don’t start packing.”

He dug his fingers harder into the dips her collar bone made. 

Her huge eyes looked at him blankly for a second. Then she grabbed the cattleman and jabbed the barrel into his ribs.

“Get away from me.” 

He did. Happy that at least she wasn't shouting. Happy that her eyes were hardening and looking at him in disdain rather than blank confusion. Happy that the gun was being held firmly and she jabbed it harshly into him. 

Arthur returned to pacing slightly, “Do you have trunks? Bags?”

She stood, leaving the gun on the table and moved to the room behind him leaving the door open behind her so he followed dutifully. 

Her room rolled waves of strawberries and roses did hit him harshly and only made him tense up more. She was thankfully ignoring his lingering in the doorway. He watched her actions carefully, she slugged a trunk out of the bottom of a painted wardrobe and into the middle of a room. She huffed, straightening her back and kneeling to open it. 

“No bags? I only have a horse.”

She didn't even turn but the venom dripped from her tongue, “Go find a cart then. Steal one. That’s what you do.” 

He grit his jaw. 

“What are you even packing? This isn’t the time for you to bring your perfumes and trinkets.”

“And leave them here so you can poach it? I think not.” She carefully folded up the pink dress he had walked her in. 

He remained at the door though. He wasn't half sure wherever she just wanted him out of sight so she could bolt herself. Anyway, it wouldn’t be hard to pick up a cart and likely be welcomed by the group back at camp. She carefully laid out three large bottles filled with clear liquid, wrapping them in… And he was quickly looking elsewhere. 

When he looked back she was shutting the trunk and moving onto a new one. Again she carefully placed several skirts and shirts. The bright white ones he had first seen her in being carefully pressed deep within the trunk. Then she looked up at him, not hiding her glare, and he felt guilty for noticing these particular items. She didn't hold the same association. But that was a nonsense feeling - Arthur told himself - guilt in this case wasn't needed. She already looked at him with hate, he didn't need to make up reasons to feel worse. 

“I am going to put my jewelry-”

“Your jewelry?!” he overspoke, forcing out a laugh.

Her cheeks puffed, the red climbing uncomfortably down her neck to her collar bones quickly.

“The jewelry in my possession.” She snapped, “I am putting it all in here. I know what I am putting it in here. I don’t expect any of it will go missing.” 

“Not while you stay with us.” 

She snorted, “Honour among thieves? God, I don’t know why…”

He didn't hear the rest, she was mumbling into her wardrobe. At least she wasn't crying. He would be fumbling around trying to deal with that. Her anger was manageable. It was spiteful. But he had the upper hand even without Hosea here to calm her at the same time. She was younger than him, not young enough to be completely naive but her hands were soft nonetheless. 

Arthur watched as she packed. Stuffing more clothes, several letters, the flowery sheets off her bed, and shutting the case again. She had rolled up her sleeves somewhen and her tight hairdo had become mostly undone. He had watched her fingers dance around the strands arranging them almost perfectly within seconds. It was a talent. Maybe she’d be good at tying rope.

She moved to grab the cattleman she had left on the bed, looking at him nervously under her eyelashes. 

“I should write a letter, there will be people who will wonder where I have gone.” 

“What’ll you say?” The words were rushed slightly not as well pronounced as hers as for the last ten minutes he had watched her without a word escaping.

“I suppose that I have been kidnapped by bandits who have no morals and surely will kill me or sooner ransom me off.” Her tone with light and she waved a hand, dismissing his question as she went to move past him back to the main room.

He stiffened. Reaching out to grab her before he could think. He felt the anger at her words roll through him. He had heard worse, even said worse. But her tone, her nose upturned to him, her eyes not even glancing at him caused it to swirl in him. 

She yelped. He grabbed into the skin of her side harshly. Much harder than he needed, he knew that. He wasn't a bad person. Not all the way bad. There were worse people. 

“Don’t give me ideas. You better move into keeping your mouth shut when we take you back. I won’t be going out of my way to help you one bit.”

And now she was meeting his eyes. Large grey eyes looked into him. No tears welled up in the corners and the absence made him feel worse. After a beat of silence she wriggled slightly and he let his grip go. 

She didn't move, staying in the doorway with him. She hardly blinked, looking between his eyes rapidly.

“I have a gun.” 

She grit it out, her soft lips forming the ugly threat. Her eyes were still too wide and impossibly young for the threat to mean anything. It didn't. Arthur knew she wouldn’t shoot. Maybe run, maybe hit him across the jaw, but not shoot. 

“Write the letter.” 

She sneered, pushing past him, roughly knocking her shoulder into him and to the table. He appreciated that. She should have pushed him harder or spat some words at him, though. 

“What are you writing?”

She didn't say anything for a few seconds, already writing in fluid cursive across the page. Quicker than anyone he had seen and well penned. She didn't pause to think, filling in half the page before speaking.

“My father's sick and I am needed urgently at home in New York. And that he can take my wages in the meantime and that I will write soon.”

“He?”

She scoffed, now pausing as she got to the end of her quick letter. Dripping ink slightly as she clearly lingered on how to sign the letter. He saw her fingers fidget around the fountain pen. 

“Yes, don’t get jealous,” the words were slick with condensation, “you were a pretend fiance, it would be absurd for you to feel like a real one.” 

He wasn't jealous. But that would only play into her so he remained silent. She was like the women back at the group at the worst of times but it somehow sounded worse dripping from her voice. 

He made a point of moving behind her and watching her shoulders taunt back. He watched as she fiddled before signing: “With my dearest love, Clara.” It clearly made her uncomfortable. 

Arthur wandered if she was one of those women. Those that remained harsh and uncaring at all avenues believing they would never need a husband. He doubted that even rich women found husbands. Even women claiming they wanted nothing but love found rich husbands - Arthur knew that. So perhaps she was secretly charming with richer men.

At least she was the type of woman not to hold back on her insults. Not fumble around and half apologise as they said. Mary was like that. Looking at him like a stray dog as she kicked him down; Clara pushed him back like they were on opposing sides. 

It didn't matter. He shut down his thoughts. 

“I’m going to get a cart. Stay here, there are Pinkertons about.”

He trusted that would be enough of a warning. She huffed behind him as he left but made no noise of movement. 

Arthur would still need to be quick. She was listening but still too skittish to be trustworthy. Hosea should be doing this! Hosea would have her under better control. 

He came back to the apartment within ten minutes and no one noticed the cart - stolen by a grocers - had gone missing. She hadn’t locked the door behind him so he merely pushed through. She also hadn’t moved. 

Her legs crossed over each other at the table and her neck stretched angelling her head to bathe in the sun's last rays. Her eyes were closed and didn't open as he came in. The words initially didn't form. He felt a rush of wanting to chide her. She was being reckless! She didn't even know how to shoot a gun! 

Those words didn't manifest though, “You know how to ride a horse?”

She remained still for a beat or two, “I had classes. I’ll be fine.” 

He couldn’t help the snort but brushed past the statement and moved towards the bedroom to the trunks. He could insist that she move one but she was rather placid as she leaned in the chair and he could take the break. When he grunted lifting on up and moved back in the main room, her eyes were open. She watched him, not moving her head, as he walked past and back to the cart outside like a morbid painting whose eyes follow you around the room. He came and retrieved the second one. 

“Get moving, we don’t have long.” 

She sighed but complied, following him out to the sun. 

“This isn’t appropriate wear for riding,” she clearly hadn’t meant the statement for him, talking shallowly under her breath. 

So he didn't respond. The snipe had made a wide smile stretch across his face and he didn't want to have to explain that to himself or to her. 

“That’s Silver Dollar.” 

She was already at the horses side, tentatively stroking the slightly silvered coat. The horse allowed her, gentle as ever. 

“Do you know how to get on?” It was a teasing statement sure to make her hate him an inch more in her heart but it whipped the disgustingly picturesque forlorn expression on her face.   
She sneered, “Lessons likely make me a better rider than yourself.” 

Arthur snorted, securing the load on the cart and moving into the small bench. 

“If you fall off I won’t be helping.” 

She got into the saddle gracefully and then awkwardly adjusted her skirts. Despite this she held her nose up high and fiddled with her waistband to pull out two pristine brown gloves. Undoubtedly tailored to curl around her fingers precisely. The action and thought made Arthur look away and forced the horse forward. They’d need to get to the camp quickly. 

She was quiet enough as they went forward. Only moaning once or twice for him to slow down for her trunks were precious. Eventually they drew nearer and could hear the voices and rushings of the camp. Someone called out to him to identify himself and he did. 

She had slowed down and when he turned to look at her he felt another pang of guilt. 

She looked lost. Like a wounded animal her wide eyes shifted around the place as quickly as they could. He saw her throat bounce and one gloved hand floated to her stomach as if she could hold back whatever wanted to come back. 

“Hey.” he spoke carefully, using the voice he used on Jack, her eyes stopped shifting and landed on him. 

And now his stomach felt weird. The guilt hurt. He knew he was a bad man and could get by mostly by simply not thinking about it. But now she was doing the thing where her eyes rested into him even from the small distance between them. 

“Get off the horse and go talk to the girls, Abigail will help you. They all will.”

She nodded, paling further but allowing her horse to move into the camp. He watched her go by.   
For a second he wondered if sending her to the girls was a good idea. Mary had avoided them at all cost, not hiding her distaste for them, and he was sure that Clara Reynolds was higher stationed than Mary ever had been. He bit his tongue soon distracted by someone yelling at him to move faster.


	5. Clara

Clara was seemingly enveloped quickly by a woman called Mary-Beth who had spotted her and took her under her arm. Everyone was moving so fast but Mary-Beth spoke softly and slowly. She also hugged Clara close, much closer than she would normally like, and guided her around.

She was already rambling, talking about Arthur and some woman called Mary and how this was good for him. Clara didn't mean to ignore it but all the words hit her head and didn't quite go in. She guided her over to a cart that two other women were assembling tarp over.

“Girls,” Mary-Beth even shouted sweetly, “This is the woman with Mr Morgan.” 

And then she was presented. And that struck something within Clara for a second, to raise her chin slightly. The two women both looked up and assessed her. One with blonde ringlets narrowed her eyes, the other instantly smiling and waving slightly.

“That’s Karen,” Mary-beth pointed at the blonde, and then, “that’s Tillie.” 

“Clara Reynolds,” then she moved out of Mary-Beth’s gentle hold, “What do you need me to do?”

Her thoughts were still going too fast to really even know what was passing through. She took a second too long to respond to questions and felt like her skin was buzzing. It was like she was about to go in front of a crowd for her first show, everything felt surreal. Everyone was moving around her too fast, making her feel sicker. She was out of place. Occasionally one of the girls must have seen this for they would put a hand on her elbow and guide her to her next task. 

Worse she caught the two men who brought her into this staring as she helped Tillie pack away tenting supplies. 

This lasted less than an hour before she was being bundled into a cart with the girls. Her, Mary-beth, Tillie, and Karen. They seemed thankful, with Clara there, the cart was full and meant that neither Molly or Grimshaw had to go in with them. Clara nodded, from the way they spoke their names she guessed neither woman were well liked. 

Clara was sitting shoulder to shoulder with Tillie opposite the two others but they were locked into a discussion over where they would be travelling to. Maybe she should have joined in. It was clear from a second look each girl was trying to distract the next. But she was stuck in her spiral, desperately staring into the mud as if that would help. Someone yelled in the distance, the caravan was going to be moving soon. 

A whistle and a familiar jacket in front of her caught her attention. 

“It’s gonna get cold, you're not dressed for the mountains.” 

Clara couldn’t help taking it as an insult. He knew how she was dressed when they left. His eyes were moving across her, not in a suggestive way, but in clear criticism of her attire. 

“I didn't know we were going to the mountains.” She glared but bit her tongue. 

“Uh huh, Hosea found a coat in your trunks.” 

Clara crossed her arms, realising the long brown fur coat he held tucked in one arm. She was becoming acutely aware that the other girls were simmering down. Morgan adjusted his hat, casting a shadow over his face. This only stung something inside of her. He was retreating in some way but leaving no option for her. 

“Well, pass on my thanks, you clearly make a good delivery boy, perhaps this could be an alternative vocation?” 

“Alternative vocation?”

“A new job.” 

“I know what it means,” he half grumbled but his lips lifted up slightly as he finally handed her the coat, “using longer words doesn’t make it more biting.” 

She snatched in, folding it over her lap, “Perhaps messenger is more suited, pass on my thanks to Mr Williams.” 

“No thank you note?” His tone dripped in sarcasm but he had already turned heel and was out of sight from the back of the cart. 

Clara knew she was frowning, her forehead was already aching. She turned back to the girls slowly, trying to ease the wrinkles with her gloved hands. Karen was grinning, Tillie was smiling, and Mary-Beth had taken out a piece of paper and she could see her scrawling on it. They had found their distraction it seemed. Clara half wondered wherever she should blow it up, extend them a hand of kindness and distract them. She was a performer and confident that she could pass it. Morgan would be a suitable villain, she was used to playing the dainty lead. 

It didn't fit exactly. She didn't have a man to save her, she had herself. Mr Morgan didn't know the movements enough either. He was a bad person but… Not a villain. Surely not? There were women with them willingly, right? Clara stopped her thoughts. They were rushing again, panicking again, thinking about the last thing she said to her father and mother, thinking about those detectives. 

Mary-beth’s sweet voice broke and rained ice on her veins, “Mr Morgan brought you a real fancy coat.”  
All of them were brushing the fur, Tillie fiddled with a gold and pearl button. Clara smilied, she had the same reaction when unwrapping the coat from her father. 

“Mr Morgan didn't get me the coat, my father did.” 

“Your daddy brought this?” It was said with incredulity as Karen gently brushed the fur. 

“As a christmas gift,” she moved to slip it on, “Here,” and opened it up so Tillie could lay agaisnt it as well and benefit from the insulation. 

Tillie grinned, “Jenny’s gonna be so…” And dropped off. Clara watched as all their smiles dropped off. Karen started straight forward. Mary-beth looks down, fiddling with her dress. Clara felt a pang of guilt as if she was the cause. An insidious part of her mind, the part that was like her mother's cold voice, told her she should feel guilt. She didn't have it worse than these women, she was a child playing thief to get what she wanted, she shouldn’t whine or feel sad. 

The guilt worsened. Her hands clutched into themselves painfully, a cramp building up in her wrist. She needed to push through, put the worry in her mind somewhere else; she began making a list in her mind, removing herself out of the cart but leaving her body behind. Ignoring the way Karen reached forward and soothed Tillie and the way Mary-beth leaned into Karen’s side, she focused on formulating a plan. 

She needed money. Approximately five hundred dollars for travel, an additional three thousand to tide her over there for the year suitably. She knew people out there, was sure she could float back into higher society enough to gain auditions for the ballet; after she was accepted she would be able to disassociate from them once more, perhaps invite her father across to see her. 

She had four hundred, well less than four hundred, tucked in the floorboards of her Blackwater apartment. A safety net in case. Her thoughts stuttered, the money was originally so she’d be able to travel home suitably as well as paying back her father what she owed if she failed. But now it would be a safety net to get away from this new predicament she ended up in. Four hundred was enough to travel to her parents and perhaps even arrange someone to stay with her for a short amount of the journey. 

So really she had nothing. She had a few necklaces and jewelry, though fleecing would be hard now. 

So first on her list, she needed to find out how they made money here. Presumably, and detestably, it would be fully through illegal means but she could not be fussy. Secondly, she should integrate herself. In case she needed someone on her side, someone to vouch for her. That should take time, she remembered what Morgan had told her, they wouldn’t take it kindly if she spoke about leaving with her share of the money. Thirdly, she needed to secure a job and excel in it, prove herself quickly. She couldn’t end up sewing clothes or… doing other jobs to gain money. 

In the cart, where her mind was no longer, Tillie had started to stroke her hand, warning her of the long journey ahead. She nodded faintly, still half out her body. 

It was hours later before she was fully back. The girls had fallen asleep and talked about Jenny for a short while as well as sharing gossip. Snow was falling harshly and everyone had bundled together pulling out blanket after blanket. She had managed short bursts of conversation which they seemed happy enough with.

Eventually, a short and growingly familiar whistle sparked her attention. 

“You still up?” He shifted on the horse, a stray gust of wind pulling the blue coat slightly open. 

There was no light between them, the cart she was in at the end of the caravan, but the moonlight was enough just to make out the slight angles of his face. His horse, not the grey one he had once before, but brown seemed to be pushing through the snow with no care. 

“Evidently,” she pushed herself further into the coat, “You have told Hosea I thanked him? This is saving me.” 

“Uh huh, just came to make sure you hadn’t fallen back.” Yet he didn't move his horse. 

She instinctively moved away from the end of the cart that she had been leaning against, a small laugh escaping him as she did so. 

“You’re trying to scare me,” she held her chin high despite falling for his warning, “It is a low form of wit,” Then a pause for a beat between two, “I hope we are going to be alright, Mr Morgan, I don’t want to freeze up here.” 

“Calm your complaining, we know where we’re going.” 

Then someone called his name, yelling twice they needed him. He gave an awkward nod, fiddling with his hat again. 

“You ain’t too cold though?” 

“It isn’t pleasant, what would be too cold?”

He huffed, the person yelled again. He was juggling the reigns as he pulled his scarf, more of a bandana, from around him. He held it out for her. She took it quickly despite her statement of faux bravado. 

“Don’t want any of your extremities to freeze. Wherever we end up you might need to do your dancing to earn your keep.” 

It was spoken harshly and suddenly despite his gift and it stung. She knew the implication. Or felt it. Or jumped to the conclusion of it. Her mother had spoken in the same sickening tones when talking about ballet.

He was already moving his horse away before she could hurl something back. For a second she considered throwing the item out of the cart but it was cold. The smell of tobacco on the scarf calmed her forcefully and nurtured the pit of guilt in her stomach. She didn't sleep until they found what was supposedly going to be camp.


	6. Arthur

Arthur had avoided the woman and everyone else, instead sleeping off an aching body. When he did get up, he took his time, ignoring the bickering of Hosea and Dutch in the room beyond. Despite the wooden walls, the chill still rattled through the small hut. 

Arthur had finished the layout of their camp. Adding a small note to his musings : The Ballerina, as she reminds me she is, has not caused any arguments with the women. She has become stuck to Abigail's side. When he strolled in, rolling some tobacco already, Hosea nodded at him. 

“Clara asked for you,” he informed him. 

“Clara not Miss Reynolds?” Arthur joined Hosea next to the fire, watching as Dutch retreated out of the cabin.

Hosea chuckled, “She had informed me that I was permitted to call her by her christian name.”

Arthur grunted. Of course she was the type of high society who were seemingly guarded and careful around their names. As if someone as low as him called her Clara she would combust. 

“And by your cheery disposition, I suppose you have been given the same pleasure.”

“It’s a name, Hosea, I can use it how I want.”

He went into the cold air. It whipped around harsher than he expected; he instinctively moved to wrap his scarf around himself but it was missing. Sighing, he turned to the hut where he knew Abigail was and thus expected Reynolds to be. 

She was a lone figure, standing awkwardly on the porch of the rundown hut with her arms crossed like some sort of guard. She was in a new dress - how many did she have? - much darker than any colour he had seen her in. Her coat, the one he had dug around for, was wrapped tightly agaisnt her and her hair all pinned and hidden. He only could see the top half of her face for his scarf was tucked and looped around her neck and chin. 

Arthur had been moving towards her quickly and saw the recognition in her eyes as she stopped staring off into the snow as he appeared in front of her. 

He unwillingly met her eyes, they were piercing and slowly rubbing away at his self esteem. She looked straight into him. Had someone said something to her? Gone into detail about what they did? What he did? She could be a poisonous woman; he didn't have a quick escape. 

“Abigail is going to ask you to help Mr Martson.” 

He nearly reared back, “Help John? A god sent angel couldn’t help him.” 

She crossed her arms and her gaze hit him worse. The grey eyes were so monochrome he couldn’t look away. He felt around for the tobacco. 

“She’ll ask you,” she continued, “And I get the idea she thinks you won’t help. Which doesn’t sound much what you all,” she waved towards the cabin Dutch, Hosea, and himself were in, “were talking about. Looking out for each other?”

“That was,” he faltered. She had thought this out and unfairly had the jump on him. She was a smart woman and, as all high bred woman were, condescending in making her point when she believed she had the high ground. Which, Arthur would only admit in his head, she did. 

“She has a son, Arthur,” she sighed, breaking the mask to his glee, “look, it’s been a long few days but if you had gone missing and you had a son back here, I’d ensure this John Martson and everybody else in this camp went looking for you.”

Arthur’s glee faded. His clothing felt scratchy as if he was still wearing it in. He didn't like the comparison to Martson. He didn't like how her eyes went piercing and determined to be large and imploring. He wasn't sure if it was an act. The sigh that escaped her lips bounced in his head unnaturally as if he was hungover. The mention of a son, the mention of her doing this act to everyone in camp, the idea of her turning this gaze on each man, all felt odd as a thought. He hadn’t liked it. 

But he didn't hate it enough to tell her to take it to someone else. 

“Move outta the way then, you’re doing nothing but catching a chill.” 

She was likely warmer than him, wrapped in all her - and his - trappings. Her face slipped easily into a passive one as she turned around. He frowned at her figure. 

She opened the door wide, cheerily announcing she had found him. He barely got in a word edgewise as Abigail came over, just as she had said, speaking of John. 

Arthur couldn’t remember saying yes. But when he nodded, a very slight amount, and Abigail sighed with happiness. Javier was already leaving the cabin and Arthur followed before accidentally catching her eyes. And he felt a fool, she was hugging Abigail, with much more affection than he came to expect from her. But her big eyes were wide on him. He nearly steeled himself for her to bite an insult or a I-told-you-so. 

Instead she mouthed a clear, “You are wonderful.”

He caught it all. And the cold air hitting him felt sweet for nearly the whole journey. 

Arthur didn't yell at John when they found him either. Well, not as much as he wanted to.


End file.
